


Throw your fist up (show you what we do)

by dishonestdreams



Series: Thanks for the Venom [2]
Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Consent Issues, Exhibitionism, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Pain Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22850242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: Frank's got an exhibitionist kink, Brendon doesn't back down from a challenge, and neither of them are as subtle as they think they are.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Brendon Urie
Series: Thanks for the Venom [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642453
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	Throw your fist up (show you what we do)

**Author's Note:**

> _I am not writing many thousands of words of Frank and Brendon exploring Brendon's pain kink and negotiating consent badly_
> 
> ...I don't want to talk about it *sigh*. Fucking Frank.
> 
> Fair warning, this is somewhat ridiculous and implausible, and largely utterly pointless porn. But you know, there are orgasms to be had, so yay? Unbeta'd, so feel free to point out any glaring stupid that slipped through

Jesus, all Brendon wants to do is fucking _sleep_.

He’s pretty sure he’s hit the wall, that point in any tour where there are too many shows behind him and too many still stretching out ahead. He’s wired and strung out from too many nights on in a row, running on too much caffeine, too many people and not enough downtime. His eyes are gritty and dry, his skin feels like it doesn’t really fit any more, too tight and drawn thin in that way that makes him clumsier and less coordinated than usual, and his thoughts are racing so fast around his head that he can almost hear them buzz in his ears. It happens every single time, and normally that’s _fine_. It’s not like Brendon’s fucking _new_; he has a strategy for this. Steal Spencer, commandeer the back lounge, play Guitar Hero until his fingers cramp and he’s burned off all the restless energy that’s fizzing under his skin and then crash out face-first in his bunk. It’s a tried and tested approach and Brendon would swear by it.

The problem is, his strategy doesn’t really account for interlopers, and right now his bus is full of _other people_. My Chem’s bus has an issue with the air con, and apparently Bob draws the line at slumming in five guys’ worth of tour funk when there’s no fresh air. Which also means that Bob has already stolen Spencer to talk about Serious Drummer Shit up front, while making it very clear that Brendon is _not invited_. Which, fuck Bob. Brendon could totally hold his own in a conversation about Serious Drummer Shit. He’s got _skills_.

Anyway, not the point. The point is that Brendon has no Spencer. And while Ray is crashed out in the bunks, because Ray is a smart motherfucker who’s taking every chance he can on this whirlwind tour to grab some sleep (and Brendon is not admitting it out loud, but he is totally jealous of more than just Ray’s amazing hair), everyone else is… not.

Brendon stares around the back lounge. Ryan and Gerard have their heads together on the other couch, deep in a conversation which Brendon can’t really hear but that seems to involve a lot of Ryan nodding thoughtfully while Gerard explains something with a terribly earnest expression. Mikey’s curled up at the opposite end of that couch, his feet tucked up under the cushion and his glasses slipping down his nose, as he stares at his Sidekick with a focus that’s so intense it’s almost scary. Brendon doesn’t _think_ Mikey’s actually said anything since he got here; he’s just settled in like he _belongs_ and no-one is arguing with him, although Gerard does keep smacking him in the shoulder every time his expressive gestures get, well, _expressive_. Jon’s collapsed onto one of the beanbags, futzing with Brendon’s acoustic, although as far as Brendon can tell, he’s just making noises for the sake of it, because he sure as fuck can’t pick out any recognisable melody. He’s pretty sure Jon’s still stoned.

Frank’s sprawled across the couch next to him, seemingly engrossed in a comic book Brendon can’t see properly that’s balanced on his thighs. He’s got his legs slung across Brendon’s lap, effectively pinning him in place, and Brendon is really fucking _aware_ of Frank’s heat seeping through the denim of his jeans.

His fingers twitch a little, because he’s feeling jittery as fuck, he’s half-hard in his pants and he can’t keep his knee from bouncing even under the weight of Frank’s leg. He wants, he needs…something. Something energetic. Something brutal. His strategy. _Anything_ other just fucking sitting here. 

He doesn’t even realise his fingers are still moving, tapping out a staccato, off-beat pattern on Frank’s thigh, until Frank grabs his wrist, more forcefully than is probably warranted, and drags Brendon’s hand off his leg to pin it down out of sight against the couch cushion. Brendon’s stomach gives a tiny, thrilling swoop, and he half twists in his seat to fix Frank with a wide-eyed stare. “What?”

“Calm the fuck down, Urie,” Frank says, and he sounds almost _bored_, except that he’s looking up at Brendon from under his eyelashes, and the glint in his eyes is one Brendon recognises. It’s the same look Frank pulls out anytime he manages to catch Brendon on his own with a locked door between them and the rest of the world. It’s the look that signals that he _really_ wants to fuck Brendon up, see how many screams he can rip out of Brendon’s throat and how many desperate shudders he can pull out of Brendon’s body. Brendon’s breath quickens, a jagged edge on the exhale that he knows Frank can hear, and his wrist jerks against Frank’s unforgiving grip.

Because fuck _yes_. That would do.

Across the room, Mikey snorts. “You’re one to talk,” he observes, mildly.

Frank grins, wide and obnoxious, and blows Mikey an ostentatious kiss, at the same time as he rakes his ragged fingernails _hard_ down the inside of Brendon’s wrist. Brendon _jerks_ in his seat, as much as he can under Frank’s weight, as all his blood rushes south, and he flips from _turned on_ to _dizzyingly hard_ in a blink.

“You know you love me, Mikeyway,” Frank says, and he’s tracing random shapes over Brendon’s wrist now, alternating soft touches and bruising digs into spots where he knows Brendon is already sore. Brendon is fucking _vibrating_ with how hard he’s trying not to just kind of collapse onto Frank and he’s so fucking _easy_ for this. Mikey shrugs, an unspoken and implicit _duh_.

“Whatever, fuckhead,” he says. “Just thought it was worth mentioning.”

Frank flips him off idly, his attention already seemingly drawn back to his comic book, but there’s a small, secretive smile playing across the corner of his mouth, and he fits his hand around Brendon’s wrist in the same shape as he had the _last_ time they did this; his fingertips fitting perfectly into the existing bruises. He presses in, slow and unrelenting, until Brendon can feel the ache in his bones.

Brendon draws in a shaky breath that’s louder than he wants to be and, yeah, no, fuck Guitar Hero. They really need to find some privacy _now_ before he embarrasses himself. Granted, Gerard and Ryan look pretty engrossed in…Brendon blinks, because he’s pretty sure Gerard is sketching something on the back of a napkin while Ryan watches over his shoulder, and _that’s_ a progression. But, anyway, they’re focused, and a quick glance confirms that, yep, Jon’s predictably crashed out, with Brendon’s guitar balanced precariously across his knee. Still, Brendon’s been caught out too many times in the past to rely on Ryan’s seeming obliviousness, and even without that there’s still Mikey. He shifts in his seat, not really trying to stand up yet, but just signalling to Frank that he’s ready to.

He hadn’t really factored in Frank being an asshole. He hadn’t really factored in Frank being _Frank_.

As soon as he starts to move, Frank’s moving with him, drawing his leg up to accommodate Brendon’s shifting, and it must just look completely fucking natural, except that somehow it ends with Frank’s foot braced against Brendon’s thigh, with the heel of his ratty converse digging hard, too hard, _nothardenough_ on Brendon’s cock. At the same moment, Frank’s fingernails drive into his wrist, sudden, sharp and insistent with a bite that says he’s broken skin sending fire racing up Brendon’s arm. Brendon’s hips stutter without his consent, his eyes rolling back in his head and he has to bite down sharply on his own tongue to stop a moan from slipping out of his mouth.

Brendon freezes, fighting back every instinct that’s urging him to just thrust up against the burning pressure on his cock and _let go_, and his eyes flick involuntarily to Frank.

Frank’s waiting for him, his head still down, but his gaze firmly fixed on Brendon’s face. When Brendon meets his eyes, Frank quirks his eyebrow, all wicked challenge and taunting dare, with the hint of a smirk dancing across his mouth, and the message couldn’t be clearer.

_Try me._

And, okay. Fucker. Brendon narrows his eyes and curls the fingers of his free hand into a fist against the scratchy couch cushion as he drags himself forcibly back under control through sheer goddamn willpower. It takes him a minute, but, while that insistent _fuck fuck fuck_ is still thrumming under his skin and, _god_, he _wants_ so badly that it’s making his mouth water, he gets to the point where he thinks, he _thinks_ he can hold off, at least for a while. 

He really wants to. For all that he’s fucking turned on and he’d like to get off, if Frank’s going to throw out _that_ kind of challenge, well. Brendon’s a youngest child. He’s never turned down a challenge in his _life_. If Frank wants to play, Brendon’s going all in.

He slumps back into his seat, and Frank loosens his biting grip on Brendon’s wrist, silently signalling his satisfaction with the light scrape of a ragged nail over Brendon’s pulse-point, and Brendon lets himself react, dropping his head back against the couch with a groan. It’s a deliberate move, baring his neck and putting himself on display in a way he _knows_ Frank is going to understand, and he’s rewarded by a sharp intake of breath to his left.

“M’so fucking tired,” he says, and he _is_, enough so that it makes it easy to round his vowels and slur his consonants just a little. He hits the pitch perfectly; anyone who doesn’t know how Brendon sounds after sex is just going to think he’s exhausted enough to lose his diction.

Frank’s not going to think that, and that thought alone is enough to make satisfaction curl thick and heavy in Brendon’s belly. Frank knows better.

“Go to bed,” Mikey suggests, dryly, and Brendon lets his head loll to the side so that he can see Mikey more clearly. The fact that the move _also_ bares his neck more distinctly to Frank is just… a fortunate coincidence.

“Too far,” he says, sadly, and it comes out a little more breathy than he’d planned, because Frank chooses that moment to rock his heel down forcefully against Brendon’s cock, a stinging bite of pressure that shivers through him, fizzing under his skin, and Brendon’s vision sparks white for a split second.

“Wait, what?” Gerard says, suddenly, and Brendon scrambles for his focus, because Gerard can be a scarily observant fucker when he’s actually paying attention. “Why is Brendon sad?”

“Because he’s a drama queen,” Ryan says immediately, and Brendon sticks his tongue out at him, because Ryan’s an _asshole_ who apparently _wants_ Brendon to bedazzle every waistcoat he owns.

“Because he’s tired and lazy,” Mikey says, and he glances back down at his Sidekick.

“Hey!” Brendon says, indignantly, because he’s got a reputation to defend. Probably.

“Is that all?” Gerard says, and then he smiles, bright and sweet at Brendon. “That’s easy. Just sleep on Frankie. He’s comfortable.”

“Fucker,” Frank says, without heat as he flips the page in his comic, and Brendon hums out a laugh to hide the hitch in his breath as Frank scratches his thumbnail over one of the still-throbbing sore spots on Brendon’s wrist.

“Motherfucking _genius_,” he tells Gerard, and Gerard’s smile goes a little lopsided.

“I know, right?” he says, “And don’t front, Frankie. You like it.”

“Only with you, baby,” Frank says, and he’s talking to Gerard, but his gaze flickers, just a second of his focus switching to Brendon, amused permission, and Brendon swallows. The low thrum of arousal that’s feels like it’s been humming in his blood for-fucking-ever explodes into another heady rush of desire that leaves him shaky with unspent adrenaline.

He needs to move this thing on. 

He arches his spine, not really a stretch because he’d need his arms for that, but enough to make his hoodie slip up and his jeans slide down to give a tantalising flash of his hipbones, before he just folds over sideways. It forces Frank to move, and there’s a brief flurry of limbs, where Frank both shifts his foot and releases Brendon’s wrist to accommodate Brendon’s slump onto him. Brendon takes an elbow in the ribs that he’s pretty sure Frank doesn’t mean like that, but which floods him with a dizzying ache anyway, because clearly his wires are more crossed than usual. Eventually he’s settled in; pressed between Frank’s side and the couch, his head tucked under Frank’s chin and his arm resting low across Frank’s hips. Frank for his part has managed to slot his thigh in between Brendon’s legs, which is both so much better and so much worse than his foot, and his hand is resting lightly at the nape of Brendon’s neck.

Gerard’s already turned back to his conversation with Ryan, and Brendon takes the opportunity to press in a little closer, letting Frank’s warmth soak into him, and _fuck_ it feels good to have some freedom to touch. He breaths in deeply, flooding his nostrils with a scent that’s spice and sweat and smoke, with an undercurrent of something sweet, and Brendon’s mouth waters. He shifts his arm just a fraction; an easy adjustment that should look like nothing, but that gives him the chance to drag his wrist over where Frank is hot and hard in his jeans. Frank hisses, his nails scratching rough over Brendon’s neck and then digging in hard.

“I know you think you’re cute,” Frank murmurs against his hair, low enough that Brendon can barely hear him, “But you should know you’re definitely going to pay for it later.”

Brendon bites back a laugh. “You started it, dude,” he points out, quietly as he can, and he stretches out his arm, letting it rub across the front of Frank’s jeans again. Frank’s hips twitch gratifyingly.

“Brendon,” Frank says, low and dangerous. “Do that again, and I’m gonna make you come in your jeans, right now.”

Brendon stills. “You wouldn’t.”

Frank flips the page in his comic, using the movement as a cover to rock his thigh against Brendon’s cock, and triggering a low, insistent pulse in Brendon’s groin that makes his pulse spike and his mouth dry. “You really think so?”

Fuck, _fuck_. He would, he totally would, and that thought should not send a dirty-delicious shiver down Brendon’s spine, but it _does_, and he squirms impossibly closer.

He doesn’t move his arm.

He’s not sure how long they spend like that; Frank occasionally turning a page in his comic, his thigh heavy between Brendon’s legs and his nails light on Brendon’s neck, but it’s long enough and quiet enough to let Brendon’s exhaustion creep back in, greying the edge of his vision as the adrenaline seeps away. He’s not going to sleep, not yet. He can’t, even with it clawing at his consciousness, there’s still a low throb in his belly and a hum under his skin that’s being reinforced by every shift of Frank’s muscles that won’t let him slide under. Despite that, he lets his eyes slip closed, and then it’s just sensation: the hum of the bus, the warmth of Frank’s breath in his hair, the murmur of conversation from the other side of the room, and the steady rhythm of Frank’s heartbeat under his cheek.

It’s too much and it’s nowhere near enough. He feels like he could just lie here for ever. He really doesn’t want to.

The cadence of the bus shifts, the steady reassuring hum of the wheels on tarmac dropping to a lower register that Brendon thinks they’re probably all familiar with by now, and he slits his eyes open, just enough to be able to see. The bus rumbles over something uneven, and Gerard’s head pops up, suddenly alert from his discussion with Ryan as he twists to get a look out of the window. 

“Are we stopping?” Gerard asks, “Are we there? It feels like we shouldn’t be there yet.”

Ryan cranes his neck to get a better view over the back of the couch, and shrugs. “Rest-stop, I think,” he says. “Driver changeover maybe?”

“There’s a Starbucks,” Mikey says, without looking up from his phone, and Gerard turns on him like a shark scenting blood.

“How do you know that?” Gerard demands, and Brendon doesn’t think it’s his imagination that there’s suddenly a shade more urgency in his tone.

Mikey just waves his phone at Gerard. “Google,” he says.

“So,” Ryan says, and Brendon can hear the thread of amusement underneath his usual low tone. “Coffee break?”

“Yes,” Gerard says. Emphatically, and loudly, and Frank uses the moment as an excuse to rock up against Brendon. It’s just a shift of muscle, a quick tense and release of his thigh, but it’s enough to make Brendon’s dick jerk again in his pants. Brendon presses his face a little harder into Frank’s shirt, letting his eyes fall fully closed as his mouth drops open on a harsh exhale.

“Gee,” Mikey says, “Shut up. I think Brendon’s asleep.”

“I was asleep,” Jon says, muzzily, and Brendon hears the crunch and shift of the beads in the beanbag as Jon shifts around, and then the distinctive clatter-thrum of his guitar being set aside.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, “But there’s no way we were having a coffee stop without waking you up, so…”

“That’s why I love you, Ryan Ross,” Jon says, earnestly and still sleep-heavy, rounding out his vowels and emphasising his lisp, and Ryan huffs in something that could be either irritation or amusement.

There’s a rustle of movement, which Brendon thinks is people moving around above him. “You coming, Frankie,” Gerard asks, and, _fuck_, he sounds a lot closer. Brendon digs his fingers harder into Frank’s hip, setting off a grounding ache in his hand, and fights against the urge to squirm against Frank’s thigh.

“Brendon’s _asleep_,” Mikey says, again, with just a hint of exasperation. “And he’s using Frank as a mattress.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Gerard says, “But. Coffee.”

Frank snorts. “I’ll stay here,” he says, his words rumbling through Brendon where they’re pressed together. “And, y’know, this was your idea, so you can bring me stuff. Be like my valet or something; it’ll be awesome. I want-“

“Yeah, yeah,” Gerard waves him off. “I know what you want, idiot.”

“We’re gonna need to bring something for Brendon as well,” Jon says, mildly, “Or we’ll all be fighting him off with sporks when he wakes up and realises that we have snacks and he doesn’t.” Which, _dude_. Jon is officially no longer Brendon’s favourite. Brendon does _not_, has _never_…well, maybe once. He cracks one eye open again cautiously and is rewarded by the sight of Ryan staring at Jon with his hands on his hips

“Sporks?” Ryan quirks an eyebrow at Jon, and Jon just smiles back at him. Gerard waves his hands insistently.

“_Coffee_.”

“Donuts,” Jon says, happily, and Ryan rolls his eyes, before he grabs hold of Jon’s wrist and tugs him out of the room, Gerard in close pursuit.

Mikey’s the last one to leave, and Brendon hears him pause, as the others move further away. “I’ll keep them out as long as I can,” he says, just a hint of dry amusement colouring his words. “But you’re gonna want to be quick.”

Brendon’s head shoots up, because, holy fuck, Mikey _knows_. He meets Mikey’s eyes guiltily, and Mikey’s expression is as infuriatingly inscrutable as ever, but his mouth quirks with just a hint of a smirk. “You’re not fucking subtle,” he says, mildly, and, _wow_, that’s a lie; Brendon is a fucking subtlety _ninja_.

Except that Mikey _knows_, so maybe not.

“Um,” he says, before he trails off. He doesn’t really have an excuse for this kind of breach of bus etiquette and he suspects _I’m really horny and really tired and I just want Frank to hurt me and get me off so I can sleep_ isn’t going to cut it. He settles instead for biting his lip with a shrug, shooting Mikey the best apologetic look he can muster. 

Frank, on the other hand, smirks unrepentantly, sketching Mikey a mocking salute. “Good thing you’re the only fucker paying attention then,” he says, cheerfully. Mikey huffs quietly, not quite a laugh, but still something Brendon thinks is amusement rather than irritation. His gaze flicks back to Brendon for a fraction of a second, too quick for Brendon to read anything in it, before he ducks out, following the rest of their combined bands toward the front of the bus.

And Brendon doesn’t have any more time to think about it.

The second the curtain falls closed behind him, Frank’s on him, rolling them and swinging one leg over his thighs to settle in his lap, with a demanding kiss that’s all biting teeth and fire, and just like that Brendon’s back to hard and ready to go. He drags his mouth away with some effort, and Frank drops his head down to nose along his throat. “You are a fucking _dick_,” he gasps out, and Frank nips at his neck in warning.

“Fuck off, you loved it,” he says, dismissively. “And it was hot as fuck. We’ve probably got about seven minutes before the first one of them comes back. Think you can get off that fast?”

Brendon actually thinks that, right this moment, he could get off if Frank _looked_ at him the right way, but there’s no way he’s admitting to that. “Think you can make me?”

The look Frank gives him is positively scornful, but then he’s sliding smoothly down Brendon’s front, and he’s got sex ninja skills or something, because somehow he’s got Brendon’s pants undone while they were talking, and he drags them down with him. Brendon’s cock springs free of his boxers; flushed and hard, and he shivers as the cool air of the bus hits him.

Frank wraps his hands around Brendon’s hips, pinning them down and curling around the curve of Brendon’s hipbones so that his fingertips brush teasing against Brendon’s ass. He looks back up at Brendon, eyes dark and hooded, and then he winks, leaning down until his lips brush teasingly against the side of Brendon’s cock, and Brendon draws a sharp breath that’s more whine than anything else. Frank drags his teeth lazily over Brendon’s too sensitive skin, the heel of his hands countering the instinctive buck of Brendon’s hips, and then he sucks the head of Brendon’s cock into his mouth. Brendon chokes on a groan, his heel drumming involuntarily against the couch, as Frank swirls his tongue lazily over his slit, before he licks his way down the length of Brendon’s cock, his tongue fluttering against the underside in an off-beat rhythm that tingles all the way down to Brendon’s toes and bursts like fireworks across his eyes. He blinks, his hands fluttering a little uselessly before he grabs his thigh with one hand and drags his fingers roughly through his hair with the other, creating a sting that’s an ideal counterpoint to the slow pleasurable drag of Frank’s mouth. “Fucking _hell_.”

Frank pulls off his cock with a pop, looking up at Brendon from under his hair, and there’s a wicked glint in his eye that makes Brendon shiver. “Pull my hair if you want,” he offers, just the edge of a rasp burring the words. “Just remember, I’m gonna retaliate if you do.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he sinks back down onto Brendon’s cock, his mouth hot and wet and the pressure just fucking _right_. Brendon’s hands fly up to cradle his head, because he can, because he’s _allowed_, and he’s not planning on pulling, but Frank’s approaching this with all the finesse of a back-alley quickie and it’s pretty much reducing Brendon’s brain to mush. Frank’s mouth is sloppy and messy and artlessly perfect, and Brendon can’t help the way his fingers are already twitching against his scalp. 

He’s not going to do it. He’s _not going to do it_.

Except, then Frank slides down, down, all the way until his nose is pressed against Brendon’s skin, Brendon’s cock bumping against the back of his throat, and Brendon forgets himself. He rakes his nails through Frank’s hair, strands tangling around his fingers and then, unthinkingly, he _yanks_.

He feels Frank’s mouth stretch into a grin that has got to look fucking _obscene_, and he’s going to look because he wants to _see_, but then Frank sucks hard and pulls back, slowly and tightly. With teeth, scraping sharp and shocking against Brendon’s cock, and that’s _it_. Brendon’s _done_, and he comes hard and fast, spilling into Frank’s mouth without even an opportunity to shout a warning. Frank doesn’t bat an eyelid; he just swallows and keeps sucking, the wet heat of his mouth more than enough to draw Brendon’s orgasm out until it’s too much; a sweet sting edged with teeth that leaves him squirming and gasping out short, aborted breaths.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, more emphatically than he intends, and Frank sits up, letting Brendon’s softening cock slip from his mouth.

“No time,” he says, mock-regretfully, and Brendon groans, swatting half-heartedly at Frank’s thigh.

“No more talking for you,” he says, “New bus rule. Talking privileges revoked.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, eyes glittering with amusement. “Good luck enforcing that one, munchkin. Better men than you have tried and failed. C’mon, up.”

Brendon blinks at him uncomprehendingly for a drawn out second. Then Frank tugs impatiently at his jeans and, oh, right. Clothes. Clothes should definitely go back where they’re meant to be _before_ anyone comes back. He wrestles his way back into his jeans with Frank’s help (which, admittedly involves more touching than is probably strictly necessary, but it’s _Frank_, and it’s not like Brendon is going to complain) and slumps back against the couch. Frank crawls back up his body and then drops, half on the couch, half sprawled over Brendon, nuzzling in against Brendon’s neck.

It puts him in prime groping position and Brendon’s not one to pass up that type of opportunity. He reaches down for Frank’s zipper, but Frank’s quick. He catches hold of Brendon’s wrist, firm enough to stall his movement, and more than enough to trigger a throb that sizzles sweetly deep in Brendon’s belly. Brendon pouts, partially because his skin is fizzing and he’d _really_ like to get his hands on Frank’s cock right about now, and partially because it’s not really like Frank to turn down orgasms. It’s one of Brendon’s favourite things about him. “Frank?”

“Told you, not enough time,” Frank says, lazily, his words vibrating against Brendon’s throat, and he scrapes his teeth over Brendon’s collarbone. “M’good. Go t’sleep, and next time we stop, you can blow me in the bathroom while I pull _your_ hair.”

Brendon makes an appreciative noise low in his throat, because that _does_ sound like a good idea and right now the residual hum from his orgasm and the seeping heat of Frank’s body pressed against his are combining to pretty insistently tug him down toward the sleep he’s been so desperately craving. He’s most of the way there, when Frank speaks again.

“We could ask Mikey if he wants to watch.”

Brendon’s eyes fly open. He feels totally justified in shoving Frank off the couch.


End file.
